


false colored eyes

by littlefoxfires



Series: anything, anything (i'll give you) [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Love Triangles, Moral Ambiguity, Smut, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefoxfires/pseuds/littlefoxfires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child he’d read as much as he breathed, was teased for keeping his nose in a book as he walked down hallways and crashed into walls and people. So he supposes that from an outsider's point of view, this all has to be a fucking marvel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	false colored eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this a while ago as a continuation, got a new laptop, and read it over. I really liked this story, despite it being just a tad disturbing, and decided to post it as part of a series of drabbles. This is a continuation of 'sonder' and you definitely need to read that before you read this. 
> 
> About the subject matter, MissMarissa really said it best (who is awesome and gave me a great comment, thank you, I love you). In those first couple episodes...I don't know, man. CW has a thing about pairing up underaged girls with older guys, (Hollywood in general, I suppose, and that implication is completely gross, btw), and all those girls cycling in and out of Bellamy's tent were definitely under eighteen. Also, Octavia is one of the younger characters in the first season at about sixteen, and Lincoln is obviously several years older than her. That's part of the reason why I'm not really of fan of them together, to be honest. Might make me a hypocrite as far as Bellarke is concerned. Anyway, I'm getting off my soapbox. Please enjoy.
> 
> Trigger Warnings (!!!!) underage sex, statutory rape, explicit sexual content.

The story of how they end up like this, Clarke’s hands running all over him, tentatively, as if she really _can’t believe it_ and the guilt steeped so dark and low in his chest, is an interesting one. Even from his perceptive, right in the middle of it all, encircled by her soft, creamy legs, thrusting hard into her—he’s sort of intrigued about how this happened, and most of all, how it will play out. Perhaps it is an obsession with stories. As a child he’d read as much as he breathed, was teased for keeping his nose in a book as he walked down hallways and crashed into walls and people.  So he supposes that from an outsider's point of view, this all has to be a fucking marvel. 

Luckily there is no one watching at this moment, because Bellamy is definitely fucking his little sister’s best friend (she also might be his best friend, Jesus), head falling back on her impossibly fluffy pillow, trying not to watch himself disappear inside her as she rides him because it would be over much too quickly. Instead he grips her hips and just looks up and watches her face, head thrown a little back and slack in bliss, a little _smile_ on her face like she’s finally got everything she’s ever wanted.

A knock comes from her door, soft, but he’s sure he heard it, and he freezes in complete and utter terror. Like, it _grips_ him. Because no matter who it is, if they walk in and see them having sex it’s going to be bad. It’s a specific, detailed knock, and he knows exactly who the fuck is behind the door, and Clarke doesn’t even bother to address it, just leans forward to put a small hand on his mouth, actually says, _“Shh.”_ And, inappropriately, it turns him on, he groans into it. At this, her smile turns breathless and amused as she rolls her hips harder, and he really does not want to think about who taught her how to do that.

In the morning, when they have breakfast, he is trying not to be awkward, and angry. He is trying not to be a lot of things. But that is difficult when he comes down the stairs and Clarke is chatting and laughing with his sister like nothing fucking happened. Like he didn’t find out she was having an affair with her step-father and then fucked her right after. Which would be fine, if Cage Wallace wasn’t with them, sipping on coffee in his disgustingly expensive suit, sneaking glances at the line of Clarke’s small, cotton shorts that look like glorified underwear. It makes him feel better that none of his lascivious looks are directed at his sister, but he’s still pissed, and most of that is self-hatred, because instead of trying to convince her to tell her mother he got distracted by her pussy. Also, a part of him is decidedly jealous, because he is pretty certain she wore those shorts to draw Cage’s gaze.

“Bell!” Octavia has her eyebrows raised, “Where have you been? You never sleep this late.” She doesn’t seem suspicious, if anything, the tone is a little joking, lifted in typical Octavia Sass. Thankfully, the lack of edge to her voice means that their mother is alright, and there is light a weight lifting from his chest, but guilt settles in deeper.

Clarke leans against the counter with her own cup, mouth in a genuine smile and eyes swirling with secrets. He clears his throat as he brushes past her to pour himself coffee from Abby’s glass French Press. The woman is obsessed with coffee, but insist that a French Press is the only way to brew it. The first time he’d taken a sip, he felt like he’d entered another world. It was smooth, bold, and not as bitter as he was used too with his family’s old drip machine.

Abby is a tad bit pretentious. She grew up with money, unlike Clarke’s father, but nonetheless, the women is decidedly friendly, all warm brown eyes and tough love. She is a good person, a good doctor, and looks after Bellamy’s family more often than not. She is kind. And of course, that always made him wonder about the thinly veiled contempt in Clarke’s eyes when her blue gaze was directed at her mother. So often had he seen Abby look at her daughter’s back with regret, feel him looking and turn to him with a self-depreciating smile.

“Your mom’s fine. They just wanted to run some more tests. You know how my mother is. She’ll probably okay her tomorrow for discharge.” Clarke says, and he has to avoid her gaze, but Bellamy nods nonetheless.

Yes, he does know how Abby is. Meticulous and fair. 

Wait. “You should be in school,” Bellamy realizes, turning a harsh glare at Octavia, who is immune to his disappointment by now, and just sips on her orange juice with an unimpressed look. She’s not a coffee person. It upsets her stomach. It’s about eight AM, and usually Octavia and Clarke always go to school together, without fail. He doesn’t have enough money to buy her a car, and she’s too snooty for the bus, so Clarke picks her up before they head to school, and they come home together following extracurriculars. Cheerleading (for Octavia), Lacrosse (for Clarke), tutoring, group projects etc. Even when one doesn’t have anything to do, the other busies themselves until they’re ready to go home. They are attached at the hip. Bellamy hates himself.

“We’re going to visit Mom, later,” is all she answers, and he supposes he can accept that answer, as long as he can force her to go to class after.

At that moment, Cage lifts himself from his seat at the island, clicks the lock button on his iPad and sighs in something like content, “I’m off!” he says, sliding the device into his briefcase, “Clarke?”

Bellamy turns to her as the girl lifts her head nonchalantly, a display of not giving an utter fuck about what he has to say.

Cage takes her reaction with a smile, “Your mother told me she was working late. Why don’t we have dinner at that café you’re so fond of? The one that uses a French Press.”

Clarke doesn’t hesitate in her answer, seamless and blasé, “I’m have Lacrosse practice, there’s a game on Friday.”

Bellamy knows damn well that practices usually end at six, at the latest. But he also knows it would be odd and downright suspicious for Cage to argue this fact and insist that she meet him after. Clarke probably knows this too, because he sees her little smile and challenging eyes as she takes a sip of her coffee. When he turns to Cage, there’s a little pop in his jaw and a hardening of his expression before he smiles and nods, “Not a problem. I’ll pick something up for you.”

“For Octavia and Bellamy too?” Clarke asks innocently, “O wants to stay until her mom gets better.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to protest, but Cage only directs his hard gaze at him and says, “Of course,” like a threatening snake, though, all quiet, interested anger and promises and jealousy. 

When Cage is out of the door, Octavia jumps down from the counter, “ _Such_ a creep. I’m going to take a shower.”

Clarke only laughs, but his own heart is pounding as Octavia leaves the kitchen, and everything is happening in slow motion until he hears Clarke set down her mug on the marble and feel like move closer to him. She pulls his cup of coffee his hands slowly, so meticulous and fluid that he’s actually watching the movement.

He barely has time to process what is happening before she is pressed against him, mouth on his. She tastes like coffee.

“What are you doing?” he hissing as he pushes away firmly, looking behind her as if someone will materialize any moment, as if Octavia will burst in and see her brother making out with her underaged best friend.

Clarke only looks at him with something that can only be described as amused adoration, running her fingers up and down his chest, over his shoulders, up to his neck and into his hair. Her eyes are bright and heavy lidded, body pliable against his. He closes his eyes and exhales, long, deep, suffering.

She doesn’t say anything, just kisses him again, deeper, mouth hot and sliding sinfully against his. When his hands reach down roughly squeeze her ass, she smirks against his mouth and then he realizes she wore the shorts for _him_ , not Cage. At this sudden insight, his dick actually hardens against the soft fabric of his pajama pants and she has the gall to roll her hips against him.

“Clarke, stop,” he hisses against her mouth, when her hands dip into the waistband of his bands and just grabs his cock and twists her hand.

“We only have a few minutes, but Octavia takes really long showers when she’s over here—“

“---I really don’t want to talk about my sister right now,” he groans.

“Okay,” she says with a breathless little laugh, and then pulls him forward by his shirt, walks back until he is crowding her against the island, and _turns around._ And then, if things cannot get anymore impossible, she starts to pull down her shorts. He’s pretty sure his jaw is to the floor as she bends over. He closes his eyes against swell of her ass, and really starts to pull away until she pushes against him again and wraps a hand around to pulls him closer, leans back, lifting her self on the tips of her toes.

He’s weak. Worse than weak, because he pulls down his pants just slightly and frees his cock, grinds against her ass, plush and firm and perfect and when he slides his hand to her pussy she’s already wet. He takes a little bit of time teasing her, easing two fingers into her slick, wet heat. 

“We don’t have time for that—“ she gets caught off with a soft cry when he enters her, nice and fluid.

She’s pushing back on him, and he makes the mistake of looking down. It is a terrible mistake, because when he’s almost all the way out of her, he can see his dick is slick and shiny with her wetness and her _around_ him and— 

His eyes pretty much roll back into his head, and he closes them, concentrates when he grips her soft hips and fucks her hard, relentlessly, biting his lip hard in order to keep from groaning. 

Clarke, on the other hand, is having a tougher time, she’s sobbing a little with each thrust, and with a little humor, he cups her mouth harshly, presses her mouth against her ear, and whispers, “Shh.”

She’s laughing into his hand, and then not laughing when his fingers are sliding against her clit and she’s coming and squeezing so tight around his cock and muffling her cries. 

He bites her shoulder hard while he’s thrusting, and thinks, God, he wants to leave a mark, he wants…

He keeps thrusting hard and deep into her cunt and tightening his teeth on her shoulder. 

He can’t think of his guilt, of anything, of the implications of what he doing, he doesn’t think of any of this until she gasps out, _“I love you.”_

And then his heart stops dead in his chest but his dick won’t stop pulsing inside of her. 

When his heart starts beating, albeit shallowly, she’s pulling up her shorts and turning around with a brilliant smile. She kisses him, an amorous presses of soft lips on his before she says, “Gonna shower,” extremely chipper and he’s still stupidly standing there with his dick out and his heart racing and his eyes wide.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading, please feel free to leave a comment.


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